


not much to look at, nothing posh

by fillertexted



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Knitting, Nonbinary Character, Other, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/pseuds/fillertexted
Summary: Enjolras takes up knitting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in like 2 hours and dont want to edit it so if its riddled with way too many grammatical mistakes and broken idioms im sorry
> 
> also!! a panic attack occurs in this, 5 paragraphs after the break and is two paragraphs
> 
> that summary tho,, so Boring just like this fic lmao

It was something born out of a desire to do something with his anger, transfer the energy from his inner chaos to something tangible. After getting the same lecture of not _getting into fist fights with people stronger and drunker than you, Enjolras, do you know how much pain tolerance someone drowned in alcohol has?_  for the tenth time, he decides he needs a new outlet. Trying to engage Grantaire in an argument simply for the sake of having an excuse to blow up at them is just rude. Grantaire, though a cynic, is more than just their views. They don’t need Enjolras’ "godly wrath" directed at them just because he can’t manage his anger. Combeferre quietly suggests knitting to him one evening after Enjolras is visibly shaking with rage, knuckles white against the edge of the tables he's strangling, one word away from exploding. Enjolras takes up knitting.

His first attempt is pitiful at best. Though not full of holes, he finds out the needles he’s using are too small, therefore creating a painfully tight and painfully short scarf. He buys some more yarn and bigger needles, and his next attempt is better, but is full of dropped stitches due to them slipping off the needles every row. He resolves to never use metal needles again after he launches one at the wall in frustration and gets it stuck in said wall. His third attempt is his best so far. Good wood needles, and yarn that's the correct size and soft when knitted together. The thing is, though, is his knitting is way too tight. The yarn isn’t slipping off the needle easily, and when he tries to loosen it up, the stitches are very obviously different sizes. He gives up that attempt early and simply undoes it ten stitches in.

Once he gets the hang of it though, he finds knitting to be the best outlet for his maelstrom of anger. He sticks to the simple garter stitch scarf, an easy yet vaguely attractive piece of knitwear. What he doesn’t count on, however, is how fast his collection of scarves grows. Soon, he has fifteen scarves and no room for them. He would donate them somewhere, but he feels ashamed the best he can do is a half tight half loose scarf that would be a too-thin and fragile clothing item. Instead, he gives them to his friends after overhearing Joly complain fondly about not having enough scarves due to Bossuet somehow destroying or losing them all.

He gives the warmest and most solid one to Joly, quietly explaining how he made it himself and that he hopes Joly can find some use of it. Joly gasps in excitement and winds it around his neck, before giving Enjolras a bright smile and tight hug. Joly is also the reason everyone knows he knits, as word spreads around fast when Joly suddenly acquires a scarf and chatters on and on about it. By the end of the day, Enjolras has heard several remarks from all his friends about his knitting, and resolves to give the rest away to his friends, as well as to start bringing his knitting around with him.

He tries to match the scarves he gives away to his friends with their personalities; ones that are full of holes but soft go to Bossuet, colorful ones go to both Courfeyrac and Jehan, thick ones go to Joly and Feuilly, skinny ones go to Bahorel, lighter colors go to Cosette, Musichetta, and Marius, and darker colors go to Combeferre. Eponine laughed in his face when he offered a scarf to her, and he never attempted again.

He thought about gifting a scarf to Grantaire, but ultimately decides against it. They weren’t friends, really. Grantaire came to every meeting, yes, but Enjolras has a sinking suspicion it’s simply because Grantaire is only interested in his looks, not his personality or speeches. Well, he knows they aren’t interested in his speeches, because they always lean back in their chair, smirk, and rip apart a previously flawless argument.

As much as Enjolras wants to find fault in them, he can’t. Grantaire is wildly intelligent; they slip references about everything into their arguments as easy as breathing, ranging from classic literature to The Onion articles. They always find some loophole in Enjolras’ argument, picking away at it until Enjolras sees it too, usually halfway through a near shouting match. They are funny, loving, kind, and loyal. Enjolras envies them to some degree, but is mostly in awe in both them and how they’ve managed to avoid becoming his friend. Grantaire is the exact type of person for him to fall a little bit in love with. Enjolras might’ve fallen a bit deeper than ‘a little bit’.

 

-0-

 

 

There was some big argument, but everything seems fuzzy, now. The world is moving around Enjolras, but he feels frozen in place, eyes locked on the chair previously occupied by Grantaire. He feels numb. It’s the first time he’s ever felt his anger grow cold. He fucked up.

They had had an argument, of course; when don’t they, at this point? But it had gotten uncomfortably personal. Grantaire questioned Enjolras’ reason for fighting against things that don’t affect him, and never will affect him. Enjolras shot back furiously, hissing about why they had bothered to join a group devoted to abolishing problems, not making new ones such as themself. Grantaire’s face went blank, and they had stood, leaving the Musain without a word. Enjolras couldn’t watch them leave.

A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie, blinking harshly and dazedly glancing at the person next to him. Combeferre’s unimpressed face looks back, and suddenly Enjolras is a flurry of motion. The Musain feels like a held breath; no one moving or speaking as they watch Enjolras begin to gather his belongings more and more frantically so he can burst out of the café, to head back to his shared apartment and hopefully be able to curb any destructive impulses. He feels like his whole body is shaking, and only just registers Combeferre has been calling his name as he speeds out of the backroom, too intent on getting home than in responding.

The walk from the Musain is usually around twenty minutes, but if you’re desperate and guilty enough, you can make it in ten. He’s rushing up the two flights of stairs, panting heavily as he heads down his hallway and fumbles with his keys, scraping up the lock and swearing colorfully under his breath. As his shaking hands finally manage to shove the key into the lock, he feels his phone buzz against his thigh, but ignores it as he throws open the front door and slams it closed behind him. He makes a beeline for his room, chest too tight and breaths too short.

Enjolras has had panic attacks in the past, of course, but it was different to have one after publicly having a very loud, very personal argument and leaving hurriedly, most likely pale and shaking violently. He knew that maybe Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew he has having one, and he hated the thought of possibly worrying his friends like that. He also had enough guilt to drown in, and was currently in the process of doing so as his lungs started to burn with the effort of drawing breath, collapsing into the fetal position on his bed.

His thoughts are racing, mostly focusing on how he fucked up so goddamn _bad_ , and how he just ran away from the rest of his friends. Honestly, at this point he wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped talking to him. Insinuating that someone is simply an unfixable problem is one of the worst things to say to someone who also struggles with mental health and accepting that their friends really love them. Enjolras feels guilt well in his stomach, and a crushing pressure on his chest. Tears streak down his face and he just wants everything to _stop_.

The attack comes to an end, eventually. Tired, weak, and shivering with residual aftershocks and cold, Enjolras checks his phone, only to see it blown up with message upon message asking why he said what he did, or where he was, or if he went after Grantaire. It’s all too overwhelming, but he sees it’s been twenty or so minutes after the first message was sent, so he figures the attack lasted for the same amount of time.

He attempts to text Combeferre to come home, but his fingers are shaking so much it looks like keysmash. He sends it anyway, and tosses it on to the bed, not bothering to read Combeferre’s reply after it buzzes. He just wants his best friend. He drags himself into a sitting position, harshly rubbing the sleeves of his sweater across his face, and tries to strip with the barely any energy. He gets his shoes and jeans off, chucking them weakly off the bed, but loses the rest of his motivation and makes the executive decision to just fuck it, collapsing once more on his side and drawing the messy covers around him and closes his eyes. He’s still wearing his binder, but he could care less at this point.

He rouses again as he hears the front door shut, and footsteps heading towards his room. His head still feels fuzzy as Combeferre steps into his room, and he makes a futile effort in attempting to sit up, only managing to tangle himself hopelessly in the covers in his slouched, mostly collapsed position. His limbs are too heavy and he can’t find it in himself to move them any further, so he just lies back down. Combeferre shuts the door behind himself and sits down gently next to Enjolras’ head. Enjolras closes his eyes again, and is surprised when one of Combeferre’s hands starts to run through his hair. He really doesn’t deserve anyone being nice to him, but he can’t force himself to pull away.

Combeferre’s voice is smooth and gives away nothing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Enjolras’ voice is hoarse and thin. “No.”

Combeferre respects his request, but tugs a lock of hair before he returns to running a hand through it. “Make sure to take your binder off before you fall asleep.”

Enjolras decides whines are easier than words, and tries to make his whine as displeased as possible. Combeferre just huffs out a laugh that’s more sigh than amusement and stands, heading out of Enjolras’ room, the click of the door back in its jam. Enjolras halfheartedly shimmies around under his blankets as he attempts to get both his sweater and binder off, as he has no doubts that Combeferre would skin him if he purposefully neglected himself further.

He manages, somehow, and settles down into his blankets, already drifting. He really hoped he knew how he was going to apologize this time.

 

 

-0-

 

 

“Grantaire!” At the call of their name, the person in question startles, looking behind themself as a red-faced Enjolras runs up to them. “Grantaire,” he pants, and dies slightly inside as Grantaire’s face becomes emotionless and blank. “I meant to do this earlier, but you were avoiding me. For a good reason, obviously, but I really need to talk to you.”

Grantaire turns to Enjolras fully, crossing their arms and raising one eyebrow. “Okay. Talk.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not here. Isn’t there a café someplace close?”

Grantaire face grows confused. “Yeah. It’s maybe five minutes ahead of us.”

Enjolras smiles, sure that it seems way too excited. “Great! Great. Do you mind if we talk there?”

Grantaire bites their lip, nodding slowly. “I guess.” They start to walk, and Enjolras finds himself needing to walk faster to keep up with Grantaire’s longer strides. It’s silent for a few minutes, the air between them frigid, before Enjolras draws a deep breath.

“Okay, so, I’m just going to apologize right now because that was honestly such a dick move. I honestly just meant, y'know, why do you always try to overcomplicate things when it really isn't necessary, not that you were or are a problem that can’t be solved. You’re a human being, R, not someone who’s ultimately worthless.”

Grantaire blinks in the face of what Enjolras is sure are his blazing eyes. He needs Grantaire to understand that he was wrong.

“Did you call me R?”

“Oh. Uh, I-I guess I did,” Enjolras stammers, “That’s kind of what I want to talk about.”

“Well, we’re here.”

The café they end up at is quaint, full of mismatched furniture and smells of both coffee and cookies. Enjolras instantly feels more hopeful about talking to Grantaire. “I’ll order, and you find us a seat?”

Grantaire nods before slipping in between patrons, obviously heading towards a more secluded couch in the back. Once at the counter, Enjolras kicks himself for not asking Grantaire what they wanted, and ends up ordering them both black coffees, as well as a sugar cookie as a further apology. As the café was mostly dead, Enjolras gets his order quickly, and after a quiet word of thanks he heads over to Grantaire, suddenly hit with a wave of self-doubt. He pushes it away as he hands Grantaire one of the coffees. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted anything fancier, so I just bought black.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fine. I drink black coffee most of the time, so you’re good.”

Enjolras sighs a little in relief. “I’m glad.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “Also, here. As sorry. And thanks.” He gives Grantaire the cookie.

“As thanks?”

“For not running away screaming when I finally found you.”

Grantaire shrugs again. “I mean, what you said was pretty bad, and it did hurt, but I also know you aren’t, like, a purposefully malicious person. Shit just comes out wrong sometimes.”

Enjolras nods. “Yeah. I’m still sorry, by the way.”

“It’s cool. What did you want to talk about?”

Enjolras pulls his bag to his lap. “Right. So, uh. I’m not really sure how these things go? Or if they should go at all. Hm.” He rummages around in his bag for a moment before pulling out a soft green scarf. He presents it to Grantaire. “I’ve recently been making scarves I wanted to give to you, but we weren’t really friends, right? So, as an apology, and I guess olive branch, will you accept this scarf?”

Grantaire snorts, eyes shining. “You sound like a side quest character, Apollo. Of course I’ll accept your friendship scarf.”

Enjolras beams, watching as Grantaire winds the scarf around their neck with a fond smile. “So, friends?”

“Friends.”

**Author's Note:**

> enjolras' anger @ knitting towards the beginning is based off my own experiences. dont buy metal needles unless you love dropping stitches and yarn sliding all over the place
> 
> honestly i was Way too Excited to write this? like i have a far more angsty fic i was writing and yet? i wrote this instead? incredible 
> 
> hmu on my tumblrs: [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com) (writing n hamilton blog) or [derritaire](http://derritaire.tumblr.com) (les mis blog)


End file.
